The
Christian Science Monitor
July 28,1987
An article by the artist's granddaughter, Hallie Rive Appel.
Brushstrokes
of light
It's
strange that it should be ears rather than eyes that I think about
first in remembering my grandfather, Charles Hopkinson. His painter's
eyes afforded him enjoyment all his long life as well as providing
him a measure of fame. But his ears, when I was very small, seemed
enormous. In fact, when I was 3 or 4 and encouraged by him to draw,
the ear in the profile I did of him filled up most of the side of
his head. He said he was very pleased I had drawn him so well. Again
I think of ears when I remember how sometimes he cup his hands over
my ears as I hung onto his forearms. I would swing my feet off the
ground, convinced that it was the strength in my ears that was holding
me up.
I enjoyed
being with my grandfather. I did not have to be especially nice
to him just because I felt sorry he was old. He seemed to be glad
about so many things: that I had just come home from school; that
the clouds were particularly interesting that day; that something
nice had happened to someone he knew.
He
enjoyed many things: his family and friends; sailing; poetry; when
younger, an early morning swim off the rocky shore just below his
house; years later, singing old songs around a piano. But the abiding
source of his interest and enjoyment was always light. It was his
pleasure to acknowledge the association of light and shadow in everything
he painted.
His
attic studio with windows that looked out on the Atlantic Ocean
smelled of turpentine. Bouquets of paintbrushes in jam jars stood
on available surfaces. Partly used tubes of paint and paint rags
lay near them. There were canvases leaning against the wall, some
finished portraits, some only sketches. A cool, impartial light
fell on everything from the skylight above. Posing was a fact of
life for all of us. My mother once said that
as a little girl she thought all fathers stayed home and painted
pictures of their children. I don't remember that anyone minded.
Perhaps receiving his undivided attention made up for having to
sit so still. He would walk back and forth to the easel, concentrating
in silence. From time to time he would close one eye and hold a
paintbrush at arm's length before him, using his thumb to mark some
measurement. Sometimes when I sat for him, my mother would read
to us. Every so often he would say, "Would you like to rest
now, dearie?" understanding just how much work it can be to
do nothing.
Grandfather
always carried with him a sketchbook for pencil drawings. In those
evenings before television when we sat around reading or talking
or playing some game, he would draw one or another of the people
in the room. I would often sit beside him to watch, and sometimes
he would stop and give me a short lesson in perspective, or shading,
or composition.
He
was in his 80s when he used to pay long visits to my childhood family.
Most days he would go out and paint watercolors. He might sit on
a garden chair, in summer an old brown sweater around his shoulders,
or wearing an overcoat and hat if it was fall or spring. In either
case he would be wearing old gray sneakers, with dabs of white paint
on them as a gesture toward smartening them up. His painting bag
of brushes, paints, painting sponge, and water would be beside him
on the ground and his block of painting paper propped on another
chair in front of him.
He
would sketch in lightly the important shapes of his picture. Then
he would put in his luminous colors, the lights a little lighter
than reality, the darks a little darker, and the sky-reflecting
shadows purple-blue. When he brought his paintings into the house,
they seemed to glow.
Today
his legacy for me is the light of a long-ago moment caught in a
watercolor on our wall, a backyard fence that recedes into the shadows
because it is a bluish-purple, and memories of a man who was happy
because he did what he loved best.
Hallie
Rive Appel
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